


Coming to Terms

by DValkyrie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Death, Doropetra, F/F, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Smoking, THE LESBIANS AREN'T DEAD, dealing with death, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 15:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DValkyrie/pseuds/DValkyrie
Summary: When a member of the strike force falls, the five stages of grief kick in.(Vent fic.)





	Coming to Terms

**Author's Note:**

> I recently just lost someone and really needed to vent. There's fluffy stuff of course.

Ferdinand von Aegir was dead.   
  
He had met his demise at the lance belonging to Seteth. The man atop a wyvern had struck down Ferdinand at the at the gates to the monastery. It was not a swift death, for Ferdinand had been struck off his horse and plummeted to the ground, Seteth’s lance sticking upright out of his abdomen.   
  
Only a handful of people saw this: Annette, Caspar, Leonie, Mercedes, Dorothea, Petra, Edelgard and Hubert. They all had different reactions: Caspar and Leonie let out roars of anger. Mercedes, Annette and Dorothea had forgotten how to breathe as their blood turned cold from shock. Petra and Hubert were silently furious, and the latter had gone so far as to make Linhardt warp him to the back of Seteth’s wyvern and shoved a dark spike right through the man’s chest.   
  
This, of course, all happened within the span of around thirty seconds.   
  
The aftermath would last longer than that.

Instantly after defending the monastery from the church, Edelgard had ordered that Ferdinand’s body to be taken and prepared for a funeral service and burial. Her voice was wavering slightly, but her face remained as stoic as possible.    
Hubert, his face drenched in Seteth’s blood and fists of crimson, had not said a word. Annette, Mercedes and Marianne sobbed, helping the healers carry Ferdinand’s body off the battlefield. Linhardt was paler than usual, his hands shaking.   
  
Dorothea, however, stood motionless, her fingers twitching and throat dry. She did not take her eyes off the cluster of her former classmates as they ascended the stairs. Hubert skulked behind them, his head bowed and jaw clenched. Sylvain, Felix and Shamir had huddled in a corner by a ballista, unable to do anything. Ingrid was leading Ferdinand’s mount back to the stables, having flown after the spooked steed upon their rider being stabbed.   
  
Byleth had been standing still, copping the full fury of Caspar’s rage. Ashe and Lorenz had all fallen silent, with Ignatz and Bernadetta falling to the ground and choking back more sobs.    
“He can’t die! Ferdinand can’t  _ fucking  _ die!” Caspar was screaming, saliva flying everywhere as his gauntlets clattered to the ground. Raphael was holding the smaller man back, his own face downcast.    
  
Petra had sheathed her sword and gently placed a hand on Dorothea’s shoulder, joining her side as silently as she would assassinate enemies. Dorothea did not pay attention to her lover’s presence, continuing to be deep in a trance.  
  
“Dorothea...I am having most sorrow,” Petra whispered, moving her hand slowly down the dancer’s arm to interlock their fingers.  
  
Dorothea only shook her head, watching the group surrounding Ferdinand's body.

  
That night, Dorothea did not sleep. She was held within Petra’s embrace, inside her room. All the while, her strained eyes stared at the ceiling with fresh tears trickling down her cheeks.  
  
"Ferdie is not dead...he's not dead..." Dorothea kept whispering to herself. She tightened her grip on Petra's arms, sucking in air through her teeth.  
  
"There's no way he's gone...he'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

Ferdinand was not there.  
  
The next three days had a cloud of sorrow hanging over the monastery. The Black Eagle Strike Force had gone into mourning. Everyone ate at different times, trained on different schedules, and no one had seen Hubert.   
  
Dorothea, upon Edelgard’s insistence, had been sent to the market to retrieve ribbons for the funeral bouquets. She was joined by Ingrid, Annette and Mercedes. The group were silent as they picked up the ribbons, and even bit back a sob as one merchant dared to ask for a haggle over some tea lives. Dorothea and Ingrid stared daggers at the merchant, with the former generating a blast of fire to intimidate the man before storming away.

“He was just doing his job,” came Shamir’s voice from the corner of the market. It was so quiet only Dorothea and Ingrid could hear her. She had not had much interaction with the sniper, but knew her low tone anywhere.  
  
“Well he picked the wrong people,” Dorothea spat back, ascending the stairs back to the gate with the other girls.  
  
“She’s not wrong,” Ingrid mumbled, her arms hugging her waist.  
  
“It’s just bad timing.”  
  
Dorothea stopped again and scrunched her face in anger.  
  
"Bad timing?! That scoundrel had the _audacity _to-"  
  
"Dorothea," Ingrid firmly pressed a grip upon the brunette's bicep.  
  
"Please, not now...not in public," Ingrid's voice dropped, and looked to see Mercedes and Annette's eyes welling with tears again.

* * *

  
  
The funeral took place in the cathedral. Edelgard said some words, her eyes glistening with fresh tears. Hubert lurked in the shadows, hands balled into fists.   
  
Dorothea rested her head on Petra’s shoulder, using the reservation to cry. Petra held her lover tightly, gently placing a kiss to Dorothea's temple. When Byleth stood up to only say two sentences, the entire Strike Force plus Edelgard broke down in tears. Even Caspar, who did not believe in crying, started to sob furiously, blowing his nose on Linhardt’s robe.  
  
“There are no other words...he was, and always will be, Ferdinand von Aegir.”  
  
The entire Strike Force had taken upon themselves to pay tribute to Ferdinand by laying him within a coffin full of flowers. The coffin was then drawn by Ferdinand’s mount to the cemetery, and the procession followed.  
  
Ferdinand was buried with only the strike force members present. Afterwards, they all sat in the dining hall, silent except for the occasional murmuring of remembering certain moments with Ferdinand.  
  
“He truly was the noble of all,” Lorenz reminisced, holding his teacup high into the air.  
  
“Ferdinand was always kind to me...he helped take care of Dorte,” Marianne sniffled, her voice and face cracking.   
  
“Did you know he never cut his hair because he was so stressed from the war?” Ashe was trembling between Bernadetta and Ignatz: the three archers couldn’t help but cluster together as sensitive souls.  
  
“He would get annoyed when people thought it was a fashion statement.”  
  
Dorothea excused herself, unable to bare anymore of the tales. Petra immediately stood up to join her lover, but Dorothea placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her head. The songstress walked outside towards the fish pond, her own memories of Ferdinand swirling in her mind.  
  
She had bathed in a fountain when she first locked eyes with Ferdinand. It was an awkward encounter, but the look on his face would etched into her memory: he was frozen, just staring at her.  
  
Dorothea thought, as she descended the stairs to the pond, that maybe Ferdinand was staring at her from beyond the grave now. What would he be saying? What is he doing?  
  
“Need some air?”  
  
Again, Shamir stood next to the fishmonger, a roll of tobacco in her lips.   
  
“Yes, it’s been tough,” Dorothea sighed, hugging herself and avoiding the sniper’s eyes.  
  
“Losing a soldier that valuable is one thing, but to lose someone like...him...is something else,” Shamir sighed, smoke exhaling her mouth like some kind of dragon.   
  
Reaching into her pocket, Shamir pulled out a small pouch and flipped it open.  
  
“Would you like one?”  
  
Dorothea stared at the contents of the pouch: more tobacco rolls. She bit her lip: smoking was frowned upon in the opera, especially as a vocalist. The substance would wreck her voice, and Manuela would surely scold her for taking one.  
  
“No, thank you. I don’t need more burning in my throat,” Dorothea declined, turning away the gesture.  
  
“Suit yourself,” Shamir shrugged, but still took out a roll and handed it to the brunette.  
  
“Just take it, will you? Catherine would kill me if I had the entire lot.”  
  
“But Catherine is with the church,” Dorothea was puzzled.  
  
“True, but isn’t it funny how when someone you once knew is gone, you still have habits they hated and remember them scolding?”  
  
“Perhaps…” Dorothea mused, gingerly taking the roll and eyeing it. The precision was incredible.  
  
"Ferdie hated whenever I teased him about coffee being the better solution to wake someone up," Dorothea continued to muse out loud while pocketing the roll in her dress.  
  
"He always preferred tea, and often scolded my brewing skills."  
  
“He was a kind soul. Arrogant and brash, but kind. He meant well,” Shamir looked towards the fishing pond, no emotion on her face.  
  
“He never did fish, more a horse guy.”   
  


* * *

The next day, the Strike Force had taken up their normal duties slowly. Felix and Sylvain were sent out to scout with Ashe, while Raphael and Caspar were tasked with interrogating more church soldiers with Hubert. The man was paler than usual, with puffy yellow eyes and a sunken face.  
  
The screams of torture from the church soldiers echoed throughout the entrance hall of the monastery, but no one paid them no mind. It was clearly obvious who was in charge down there.

Dorothea had not been given any tasks, and took it upon herself to shut herself in her room, sitting on the bed and staring at her manicured hands. Her nails were not sharp, for obvious reasons, but they were still painted orange from the funeral.  
  
“Come on, Ferdie. This little charade has gone on long enough,” Dorothea sighed, a strange grin crawling onto her face. Her fingers sparked with magic.  
  
“You can come trotting back through the gates now. You win,” she giggled, a strange, manic giggle that grew louder and louder from her chest.   
  
Soon enough, Dorothea was laughing. She laughed harder and harder until her throat ached, all the while magic was crackling from her fingers.   
  
“End this nonsense! Show yourself you arrogant knave!” Dorothea punched the wall with her fist, and a Thoron blasted the wood and stone into Bernadetta’s room.    
  
Berndetta, in question, was currently standing on the shelves in her room, bow in hand and arrow ready to fire. There was a look of horror carved into her blanched face as she stared at Dorothea with absolute terror in her wide eyes.   
  
Edelgard gave Dorothea a stern lecture on how inconsiderate it was of her to blast a hole in the wall of the dormitories, but stopped when Dorothea started to laugh and cry simultaneously. She eased up and walked forward, placing a hand on the dancer’s shoulder.  
  
"I know this is hard. It's destroying all of us," Edelgard softened her tone, looking downcast.  
  
"He meant so much to us all. Hubert is a complete mess."  
  
"Did you know...he was the first person I told when Petra and I started courting?" Dorothea hissed out through soft giggles and sobs.  
  
"He was distraught that I plan to leave for Brigid once the war ends...but he vowed he would visit."  
  
Dorothea hung her head, and Edelgard's expression visibly pained.  
  
"He will visit you. He is always with us, Dorothea," The emperor reassured the songstress.  
  
“Grief is a strange thing, I understand that much. But please, Dorothea, try to muster your magic.”   
  
To help ‘muster her magic,’ Dorothea had been given the task of magically restoring the wall that now gaped between her room and Bernadetta’s. Annette had been kind enough to help, as did Lysithea. The three of them went to lunch afterwards, dragging Bernadetta along as an apology.   
  
“Do you ladies think Ferdinand would be laughing?” Annette asked over her stew.  
  
“He’s probably shit himself,” Lysithea grunted.   
  


* * *

Six days later, Dorothea sat on the balcony, her knees tucked into the chest and her left hand cradling the roll of tobacco Shamir had given her. She stared up at the orange sky, and with a sigh, clicked her fingers to produce a flame. She placed the tobacco roll in her mouth and lit the end with the flame. Inhaling the toxins, she felt herself grow warm, and even relaxed a bit as she exhaled the smoke.  
  
“Dorothea?”  
  
A familiar voice sounded from behind the woman in question. Without looking, Dorothea heard Petra’s footsteps get closer. From the corner of her right eye, Dorothea saw Petra bend into a squat next to her.  
  
“I am finding you.”  
  
“Well done,” Dorothea sighed, taking another drag.  
  
“What is this?” Petra pointed to the roll with puzzlement.  
  
“It’s just tobacco, Shamir gave it to me,” Dorothea explained with no emotion in her voice. She continued to stare at the sky, her eyes glazed in thought.  
  
“I am hearing you have caused Bernie much dismay?” Petra slowly asked without a hint of malice in her voice.  
  
“Not on purpose,” Dorothea answered.  
  
“I’m just...not in a good place right now, Petra. I've felt enough emotion for the year.”  
  
“I have understanding. Ferdinand’s passing is not being real…” Petra sighed and stood up, only to sit next to her lover.  
  
“I feel like I’m dreaming...like i’m going to wake up and go to the dining hall and see his stupid face there with that stupid grin and...everything will be fine,” Dorothea’s voice broke, her lip quivering.  
  
“He was such a stuck up bastard but his heart...was of pure gold! There is no way that idiot could die, it’s not his noble fucking standard!” Dorothea wretched with sobs and tears started to flow again. She took the roll out of her mouth and curled it in her fingers.  
  
“He’s dead. Ferdie is dead, and he’s not coming back...he’s just another person lost in this stupid fucking war!”  
  
Dorothea sobbed hard, and Petra placed her arms around the shattered woman. She started to offer soft murmurs of comfort in her native language of Brigaeli, and ran her fingers through the frazzled brown hair.  
  
The two stayed like this for a while, the moon started to glisten as night fell over Fódlan. Dorothea had been sobbing into Petra's shoulder again, clinging to the princess's scarf as if for dear life.  
  
"You know..." Petra spoke softly in Adraestian, containing to stroke Dorothea's hair.   
  
“In Brigid, we are having a belief that when someone has died, they are sent to the spirits realm. If one is wishing to communicate with a soul beyond the living, they must be asking a druid. Many Brigs will often beg for the person to be returning, or to offer apologises or gratitude. It is..clo...closeness?"  
  
"Closure," Dorothea croaked.  
  
"Yes, that." Petra continued, "It is not an easy task to perform by oneself, hence why the druids are the ones doing it. Perhaps when we have moved to Brigid, I can be asking the royal druid for their services?"  
  
Dorothea didn't say anything, she just shrugged and curled into Petra as much as she could.  
  
"I miss him, Petra."  
  
"I am knowing this, and I am missing him too," Petra placed a gently kiss on the top of Dorothea's head. She trailed a hand down to Dorothea's cheek and cupped it gently.  
  
"Ferdinand is watching over us, along with the flame spirit and other spirits. He will be wanting us to continue our fight for the brightest future."  
  
Dorothea's tired eyes locked with Petra's. She saw the determination within, but also the sorrow that welled.  
  
Petra gently rubbed the tears away from Dorothea's cheeks with her thumb, "Seeing you like this, is breaking my heart. I am wanting to end this war quickly, so we can be in Brigid together, and have Ferdinand there with us, watching and protecting us. I am giving him a special seat at my coronation...and eventually our wedding."  
  
"We need to give him a front row seat," Dorothea cracked a grin, and Petra mirrored the grin.  
  
"Did you know that he was going to braid flowers into his hair," Dorothea continued to grin and moved her left arm around Petra's waist.  
  
"He wanted to scatter the flowers."  
  
"I am allowing this," Petra smiled, pressing her forehead to Dorothea's, "Ferdinand is most welcome in our home and our lives."  
  
"Just not our bedroom," Dorothea joked, and seeing Petra laugh only made her laugh.  
  
"I am in agreement," Petra giggled, and Dorothea place a kiss on her lips.  
  
The two shifted so that Dorothea sat in Petra's lap, gazing up at the now navy sky with stars scattered across. The moon shone down on them, and Dorothea could have sworn she saw a hint of orange from the glow..  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Don't smoke


End file.
